


I'm Yours

by singasongofdestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Castiel, Destiel - Freeform, Ficlet, Fluff, Happy, Happy Ending, Jason Mraz - Freeform, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Pining Castiel, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-12 23:50:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4499571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singasongofdestiel/pseuds/singasongofdestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel decides that it's time to finally confess his feelings to Dean, but doesn't really know how. Based on the song by Jason Mraz (so really just fluff).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Castiel

He had fallen in love.

Well, not quite fallen—it was more of a head into heels melting sensation. Every time he tried to be cool, to just be chill, he would realise Dean all over again and fall right through the cracks of sanity.

It was getting hard for Cas to even think.

His brothers insisted that it was time to take action, time to give it his all. And Castiel was going to try. He had to, before his composure completely evaporated.

At least, that’s what Castiel told himself as he took a mouthful of some potently alcoholic concoction and scanned the overcrowded room. The only benefit of Gabriel throwing such big parties was that he always invited Sam, and with Sam came Dean. Unfortunately, this meant that Dean was invariably hard to reach due to the people who clustered around him, who could be either lifelong friends or newly formed acquaintances (there was never any way of telling). He was the candle to the moths, and how Cas longed to burn.

Now Castiel watched as Dean moved to get a drink, alone.

This was it. This was his chance.

* * *

 

Shit, he was terrified. He never did things like this.

He could do it though, this was Dean and that meant that nothing would stop him except a random act of divine intervention. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth (three times, break, then two more, break, then one), forcing himself to walk “casually” through the partygoers as he did so.

The clouds of his anxiety condensed into a lead pellet of resolve—Castiel had decided—it was his turn to win, or at least learn, something.

Dean looked up at the figure near-marching towards him, and Castiel clenched his hands into fists. This was it. Refusing to hesitate any more, he crossed the rest of the distance in one stride and started speaking.

“Dean, I— Dean, I— I, Dean—”

Flying assbutts. He had screwed up. He felt his cheeks glowing as his heart burst into flames.

He looked into the inquisitive green eyes, at that perfect height above him that if they were to—

But they wouldn’t do that unless he could speak more than two words.

“What I mean to say is, Dean…” He ran his hand over his face. The melting thing was happening again; he couldn’t face this. But even as his soul flopped around in a puddle of Cas-ness on the floor he knew that this couldn’t wait.

Without fully being aware of what he was doing (after all, he was in a semi-liquid state), Cas managed to express his feelings.

He pressed himself onto Dean’s face, blind panic helping him to find that perfect Cupid’s bow mouth. Hours of daydreaming guided his hands: first grabbing the inevitable plaid shirt to tug the taller man down, then fumbling up his neck into that ever-so-satisfying shrub of hair.

Dean pulled back for a second, a question curling like smoke across his tongue. All in a rush, Castiel gasped out the words that thrummed in the root of his mind.

“I’m yours.”

The syllables didn’t seem like enough to fulfil the twisting ellipsis growing between them. Unable to think of anything else, Cas brought his toes forward to touch the tips of Dean’s, softly pressing their lips together. He closed his eyes and stroked his nose up Dean’s cheek, standing on tiptoes to bring their mouths level, lips maintaining peripheral contact. He spoke again.

“I’m yours.”

Balanced on the balls of his feet, the tension in his calves was nothing compared to the bowstring tautness threading from his clavicle to the tips of his fingers. His body was an anticipatory violin, waiting to be either plucked or unstrung; his arms balanced either side of him with fingers splayed, his posture that of predicted flight, or freefall. The only thing he could feel was the slight tickling sensation where Dean’s eyelashes were near-concertinaed with his own. He felt his mind unfolding, encompassing the whole room and the worlds within it; simultaneously spiralling into a point-source— a miniscule magnitude, a macrocosmic microcosm dangling on two silk-slender words.

* * *

Castiel stood in front of the mirror. His hands were sweating and his rabbit-scatter pulse throbbed in the hollow of his stomach, goading the nausea that resided there.

He checked his outfit for the seventeenth time. He couldn’t see anything wrong with his grey-blue shirt and dark jeans but then again, maybe it was best to check one more time.

He was just examining his tongue for anything that could possibly be wrong with it—any slight indication of the sickness that had persisted since he woke up— when he heard the doorbell.

An irritated holler of his name was followed by purposefully reluctant-sounding footsteps as Gabriel answered the door. Then a grumble, designed to be overheard, that rang along the lines of ‘in the bathroom’ and ‘hours’ and ‘brushing each individual eyelash for Mr. Perfect’. This was followed by heavy footsteps on the stairs which paused by the door, but Castiel was determined to ignore his brother and so remained exactly where he was (with his tongue stuck out and held between his fingers, about an inch from the mirror). His name was called a couple more times but he stayed frozen.

The door slid open slowly.

Cas flicked his gaze to where the intruder would appear in the glass, formulating a retort about siblings not needing to check up on each other when in certain rooms. But it wasn’t Gabriel.

Held in his grotesque examination, his eyes met with Dean’s as they appeared around the door.

The other man was still for a brief moment, then checked himself and stood behind the motionless Castiel. He reached one arm over to the fogged up mirror and used his finger to draw a crude smiley face. As Cas processed this, he felt himself being turned around by hands placed firmly on his waist.

His arms were forced to drop and he ended up locked in Dean’s silent smirk.

“You look great. Stop worrying.”

A chuckle and a full hug led Dean’s mouth to press against Castiel’s ear as he murmured, “You look _very_ great.” And, as if the tarmac tone of his voice hadn’t been enough, this was accompanied by a playful nip to Cas’ lobe that made Dean’s meaning markedly explicit.

The elegantly grating rosewood laughter thrilled Castiel once again as he was dragged to the door. However, Dean stopped short, making Cas pause at the boundary between central heating and the sleet outside.

“Seriously though Cas, you really shouldn’t be so worried about a first date. Life is short.”

Once again, Dean had drawn out Castiel’s lurking blush. Squirmy embarrassment sprung into his throat and he found he couldn’t speak.

Unperturbed, Dean pulled Cas fully into the unpleasant weather and continued to talk over his shoulder.

“You have less cause to be worried than most, anyway—I’ve already told you I’m yours.”

 


	2. Dean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's take on Castiel's confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and you shall receive - I hope you like it!

Dean milled around aimlessly in the highly manufactured party atmosphere of dimmed lighting and whatever song was hot right now. He was happy that Sam was making friends, or whatever Gabriel was anyway, but did that really mean he had to go to all these lame-ass parties? He was always down for a good time but these things sucked balls. Gabriel’s friends were, surprisingly enough, mainly stick-in-the-mud types who seemed to be part of a strange extended family.

Right now for example, he was being talked to by a congregation of what he would have assumed were brothers—except they all looked completely different, with a whole globe of accents. He excused himself, and smoothly motored into another group, always the king of the party no matter how much it sucked.

A pretty redhead was eyeing him from the edge of the group, her grace and quiet confidence giving her a definite allure. Some guy called Michael had caught his attention too, but he didn’t quite feel like Dean’s type, despite being cute. As people ebbed and flowed around him— always stopping to say hey, or drop off some inconsequential anecdote which Dean would grin and nod along to— Dean realised he was looking for someone in particular.

Gabriel’s brother, Castiel.

He was really something. He was unknowingly cute and utterly defenceless when it came to Dean’s renowned charm. But, as Dean had found out at a previous shindig, there was a drive to him that came out when he was angry, or certain of something. He had also found out to not speak flippantly about cosmetic animal testing around Cas. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen the woman who had brought it up at any of the other parties.

He couldn’t see Cas in any of his usual lurking places, around the edges of the babble and engaged in some intense discussion about anything from religion to bees.

He was left to wonder exactly _why_ he was looking for Castiel. There was nothing he particularly had to say to him, but the lack of his presence offset something that tasted like disappointment.

Dean shook his head, no use crying over spilt milk or missing persons. He decided the best course of action was to take advantage of the free food and booze, so he extricated himself from the group of whosoevers and whatstheirnames that never seemed to abate.

From his position leaning on the counter, Dean spotted Castiel walking towards him.

Although, walking was a bit of an over-(or was it under-?) statement.

The man approaching him was more flushed than the air-conditioned room required, and his pace resembled someone who had a literal rod up their derriere. Dean was unable to look away, and his amused scrutiny seemed to light that unsettlingly well-hidden drive of Castiel’s.

Before Dean could pull his gaze away and feign nonchalance, Cas was right in front of him—the distances of three or four strides crossed in one.

“Dean, I— Dean, I— I, Dean—”

Okay, this was unusual. And adorable.

Castiel started to blush, the tips of his ears growing pink. Lazily, a dark thought purred through Dean’s mind: he wondered what else he could do to redden those ears. However, his curiosity as to what this performance was about meant he only stared at the floundering specimen in front of him.

“What I mean to say is, Dean…”

Cas covered his face with his hands, and Dean made a small involuntary noise of displeasure. Luckily, the other man didn’t seem to notice and, even luckier, he quickly revealed himself again. Dean gazed at the embarrassment wreaking havoc on those normally still blue eyes, normally wry lips, normally composed mind. With these things removed, he realised that he normally noticed a lot about Castiel, enough for this very vivid, but unprovoked, comparison to draw itself. It was the juxtaposition of the stillest lake on the flattest day of summer with the most turbulent hurricane in November; both breathtaking, and enough to rip Dean’s pulse across his skin’s sails. Enough to make him come alive.

Castiel licked his lips, planting in Dean an urge to play copycat. Cas still wasn’t speaking and the silence gawped at them from below. Dean reached around for something to say, but didn’t fall on the right question.

Unexpectedly, explosive in his fumbling, Castiel was on Dean’s face.

This was new. This explained the stammering.

It was almost good.

Castiel seemed to regain control of himself and started to engage in a real kiss. Dean probably should have thought of that sooner, rather than just let them stand like two fish pressed together. Now, he still didn’t move—but he took in everything. The feel of a desperate and slightly apologetic fist in his shirt, hands that lithely scrambled up his neck—he would bet those hands were good at other things too. He was trapped. Physically grasped in a kiss, but also caught in something more.

Dean pulled back, suddenly anxious for an explanation. He needed to see how drunk Cas was, needed to know what this meant.

“I’m yours.”

Dean blinked. That was a whole lot of meaning for one kiss. But Castiel looked so lost, so deeply sincere and saddened by his confession.

There wasn’t a lot of time to reflect before Cas was stood toe-tip-to-toe-tip with Dean, whose heart was racing with that stomach-drop swoop of fear’s anticipation and anticipation’s fear.

He realised why he had been looking for Castiel.

A soft kiss, now. Tenderly whispering what the gasped out phrase could not—promising Valentine’s and date night and kisses in the snow. Dean’s eyes fluttered open when the promise broke, watched as Castiel stayed so, so close. The tense set of his eyebrows remembered the panicked non-conversation that began this, and Dean’s hand lifted, ready to smooth away the crease there with his thumb. But it fell again, and Dean closed his eyes.

He breathed in: mint and honeyed lime and something unidentifiable but definitely alcoholic. Castiel’s nose traced its way up Dean’s cheek, the feather-point of sensation astounding in the noise and bustle of the party. Lips held in the instant before collision—the moment in the disaster movie where the meteor grazes the atmosphere (Dean suspected in this case he was the dull-old atmosphere, while Cas was the burning catalyst of both their destructions).

Again those words, this time poured directly into Dean, enhancing but merely underlining every point of contact shared in this instant.

“I’m yours.”

Dean flickered his eyes open, just enough to see Cas balancing, tiptoe, tipped up on his toes. He looked like a bird, so elegant and fragile that he begged the name sparrow, but Dean couldn’t grant that. Every inch of him looked alive, waiting for the tiniest shudder to send him into the chase. Castiel was a hawk. Frozen now, with wings outstretched—the flightless predator, removed from his air currents in order to make him stand still.

And Dean had just been given this. All of this. _I’m yours._

He wanted it to be true, it wasn’t quite. In his experience, before something was his it had to be claimed, fought for—nothing was ever handed to him on a platter of true silver, it was only ever gilded dishonesty.

This was why he hesitated.

That was why his mouth was dry and his breaths were shaky.

He ran his hands up Castiel’s arms, oh so tense and slight within his ridiculously large hands. He closed his eyes and spread his palms across Cas’ shoulder blades, reassuring himself that there were no wings, that this wouldn’t fly away from him. He brought his lips, torn-pricked from the loss of contact, back to where they began.

Dean spoke, in what had been such a long conversation without his input that Sam would have made a snide remark if he was here. He probably would have made one about the puppyish look he knew he had on his face when he looked at Cas, too.

But now it didn’t matter. Because Dean knew why he had been looking for Cas, and why he was himself a beginning, even as their mouths drew apart for that mundane task of breathing.

“You’re mine.”

He wanted this, and so he was going to make it true.

He grabbed a startled Cas, setting him stumbling towards the darkest corner he could find. He pushed Castiel as far back into it as he could, then just a little bit more. Dean positioned himself to fill Castiel’s whole gaze, his whole world.

In a dragon-dark voice he spoke, “You’re mine.”

Envy and lust and sudden realisations pressed them far closer than was decent. Mouth to mouth or nose or ear, the possession screamed itself, but Dean said it anyway, “You’re _mine”._

He claimed Castiel with the mouth of his words, even though he knew he was only accepting what was offered to him anyway.

When he pulled back, Dean took in the dishevelled (he had done that) man who was currently cradled between plain white walls and Dean’s own frame, and was filled with wonder. Awe-struck. What could only be described as glee bubbled up between his ribs, fizzing in his lungs until he had to catch it in his teeth. He nuzzled into his patiently and reassuringly responsive companion.

“ _You’re_ mine.”

But there was something greater than this, a contract spoken and unspoken, signed and sealed without needing negotiation.

He spoke, and it was no longer unspoken.

“I’m yours.” He smiled, because it was true. “I’m yours, too.”

And then he grinned, a lavish and lascivious baring of teeth. “I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

 

* * *

          

When, three days later, he walked in on Castiel in a position that looked too painful to be part of a normal getting ready ritual, Dean knew.

With his tongue pressed so close to the mirror that it was no longer possible to see anything in it and his spine bent so close to backwards he should have snapped already, Cas was overwhelmingly what Dean expected. What he wanted.

He moved before he planned to, wrapped himself into the modern art of Castiel’s frame.

As Cas stared, petrified in the mirror, Dean decided to communicate via the glass. He was no artist, but the smiley face was his spiritual near-match.

Because right now, and hopefully for a very long time, it was the truth—that Cas was Dean’s, and Dean was Castiel’s.


End file.
